


inexorably (like time)

by polkadot



Category: Tennis RPF
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-30
Updated: 2013-09-30
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:14:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/985897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polkadot/pseuds/polkadot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Nine ATP finals. Nine losses. Championship point today, and then it all slipped through his fingers.</p><p>Certain French #1's with nine titles to their name should leave him alone to be a little drunk in peace, is all Julien's saying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	inexorably (like time)

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this tweet of Julien's after he lost:
> 
>  

“Are you drunk?”

The question comes out of nowhere, and Julien nearly jumps out of his skin. He could have sworn this Beijing corridor was empty a moment ago, but then he’s been staring at his hotel doorknob for a while now, trying to puzzle out how the key is supposed to work, so obviously in the meantime somebody has snuck up on him in an attempt to scare him senseless.

(Not that he _has_ sense - if he had sense he would have won that damn match when he had championship point, and he’d smell of champagne instead of cheap beer. And tears, he considers adding, but he’s not _maudlin_. Just tired and jet-lagged.)

“No,” he says, with great dignity.

Richie – because of course it’s Richie, because of course he’ll have managed to wander into the one other Frenchman at this whole bloody tournament – doesn’t sound convinced. “Are you sure?”

Julien would like to open his door and shut it in Richie’s face, because he doesn’t particularly feel like talking to people right now, but he’s still not sure how this key works. Maybe it’s a special super-cool Chinese key. Chinese people are cool with technology. Maybe he’s supposed to swipe his finger on it and it’ll read his fingerprint. Or maybe he needs to lean down and say his name into the reader above the doorknob.

“Need some help?” Richie says, at his elbow.

It would be too much work to refuse him. Richie can be persistent when he wants to be. Julien’s not _drunk_ (he’s not that sad, not that broken; he may have been to nine ATP finals and lost them all, but he’s not _broken_ ), but he’s tired, and arguing with Richie in a hotel corridor suddenly seems like too much effort. He surrenders the key.

Richie opens the door and pushes him gently inside, taking his bags and setting them in the closet. “C’mon, let’s get you to bed.”

“It was only a few beers,” Julien tells him, seriously, because it was. 

Just a few, to forget that fizzing thrill in his veins as he earned championship point, so close he could taste the trophy against his lips – to forget that sickening lurch of his stomach as Sousa fired that breathtaking passing shot down the line, his face ablaze with fire and belief – to forget the slow slipping away of all his hopes, as Sousa took the point, the game, the set, the championship. His championship.

“Breaking dreams hurt just as much the ninth time,” he tells Richie, not sure if he’s making sense, not sure why he’s saying it. It’s not like Richie will understand. Richie’s the golden boy, Richie’s won as many titles as Julien’s had slip through his fingers, Richie’s the one with the curls and the backhand and the talent.

Richie looks at him, and for a moment Julien thinks he’s going to say something. 

But the moment passes, and Richie’s shaking his head, the smallest of half-smiles on his face. He picks up the empty water glass that’s been sitting by Julien’s bed and pads into the bathroom, and a moment later Julien hears the water running.

By the time Richie comes back and sets the water glass down, Julien’s toed off his shoes and dropped his clothes in a crumpled heap on the floor, crawling in between the sheets with an exhausted shudder. He wants nothing more than to sleep for days, even though he knows when he wakes up he’ll have a headache pounding between his ears, and Nenad will be texting to set up practice times, and he’ll have to swallow his disappointment and move on.

He hopes things will feel better by then. They say alcohol is supposed to numb pain, but it only seems to give him a different ache.

“Are you going to be okay by yourself?” Richie asks, his voice soft.

Julien doesn’t need softness. He’s not a baby. This wasn’t his first final - _Sousa’s face, so passionate and open, the shout of triumph and the joy of victory stark across it_ \- and it wasn’t his first disappointment - _playing so well, maybe maybe maybe today, ninth time lucky, and then it all slipping away, inexorably, like time_ \- and he’s damned if he needs to be treated like he’s broken, like he’s fragile.

“Are you waiting for me to ask for a pity fuck?” he says, biting the words out, deliberately offensive. 

If Richie flinches, Julien doesn’t see. His arm is over his eyes, blocking out the light.

 _Sousa, his face so fierce on court, collapsing in joy and pride and boyishness after, his coach catching him about the neck in an affectionate headlock; first final, first title, and only the sky the limit._

At least he’d been too caught up in his own victory and happiness to pity Julien. Julien wants many things – to win most of all – but not pity. Never pity.

“No,” Richie says, his voice even. “I’m waiting for you to drink the water and say that you’re not opening the minibar as soon as I leave.”

“I’m in bed,” Julien points out, though he’s not sure Richie will understand.

But he’s forgetting that Richie is no stranger to difficult losses himself. “And you don’t feel like getting out again anytime soon?”

“Not even for alcohol,” Julien agrees.

Besides, it would make his head ache, and it’s already going to do that enough in the morning. Jet lag on top of hangover on top of losing your ninth final in nine tries is not pretty.

“Promise me,” Richie says, sternly.

Julien takes his arm off of his eyes in order to squint up at him. “Are you my mother?”

Richie is silhouetted by the light, a strange guardian angel in tennis gear. Julien half expects him to have a wand made out of a racquet, although that’s not angels, that’s fairies. But angels should have wands, they’d be very useful.

Richie’s mouth is trembling slightly. “Drink your water.” 

Julien drinks it. Richie can be stubborn sometimes, and Julien honestly thinks he might sit on the end of the bed until he got his way.

“You going to tuck me in now?” he asks, making a face.

Anyone else would have fled by now, leaving him to lick his wounds in peace; Jo rolling his eyes, Gaël throwing his hands up, Benoît chucking pillows at him.

“If you insist,” Richie says, still struggling to control his mouth, and leans down to tug the covers up around his neck. 

For a moment, Julien thinks Richie might kiss his forehead, but the moment passes. He’s not sure if he’s happy or sad. 

Mostly, he’s tired.

“I’m fine,” he says, meeting Richie’s eyes. Perhaps he still is a little drunk, just a little, but he doesn’t think he sees pity there. Just a sort of weary understanding, far more common in their career than the fleeting moments of triumph that do occasionally come their way (despite their own best efforts). The Olympic bronze medal they won together was glorious, and Julien is glad for the success he’s had with Nenad in doubles, and Richie of course has those nine singles titles; they have nothing to complain about, and yet so many unfulfilled dreams between them.

“I’m fine,” he says again, wearily but more sincerely. “Thanks.”

Richie smiles at him, a small real smile, the one the media never sees. “Any time.” He turns towards the door, then turns back. “If you need anything, text me, okay? I’ll leave my phone on.”

“If I get an urge for the minibar, you mean?” Julien says.

“Yes,” Richie says, still with that little smile. “Or if you need someone to chase Zimonjic away in the morning because your hangover is louder than the Spanish Davis Cup team.”

Julien blanches at the thought. 

“Go to sleep, Julien,” Richie says, softly, and turns out the light.

~//~

When Julien wakes up in the morning, for a long moment he doesn’t want to face the day.

His phone will be full of messages, full of pity and bonhomie, friendliness and commiseration. Everyone means well, he knows, but every time he loses the messages sound more and more final, more and more unsurprised. He already feels like shit, he doesn’t need Jo’s cute kitten pictures or Michaël’s offers to get him completely shitfaced and/or find him a girl. He needs a fucking trophy.

He limps into the bathroom with the water glass, his head throbbing, trying not to stumble into a door. It’s more difficult than one would think.

By the sink there’s a piece of paper, unexpected and out of place. He picks it up, squinting through one eye in a useless attempt to make his head pound less.

 _Cheer up_ , it says, in Richie’s neat handwriting. _Things could be worse. You’re not losing your hair like me._

He leans against the cold bathroom mirror and barks a laugh, even though it makes his head jangle threateningly.

 _If you need anything_ , the note continues, _you know my number._

Julien closes his eyes for a long minute, holding the note in one hand and the water glass in the other. 

Then he fills the glass with water, drinks it down, and goes in search of his phone.


End file.
